The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,34

orders and buttering corn bread. Instead, she’s having a little chitchat with someone outside, who I can’t see.

“Hey, Mar,” I call out teasingly, “more slathering, less blathering!”

“Oh, excuse me,” she sasses back. “You’re allowed to flirt with Miss McKeon, but I’m not?”

Hang on. Is Marlene really talking to Vanessa? My ex-wife chatting with a woman who’s grabbed my attention, and more?

I step back from the stove to get a better look.

Yep, there she is. Wearing an aquamarine dress, chunky tortoiseshell sunglasses, and her trademark luminous smile.

For one very brief moment, all is right again in the world.

Chapter 26

WIPING MY hands on a dishrag, I join Marlene at the service window and flash our visitor a tired but happy grin.

“Vanessa, what’s wrong?” I ask. “You’re here while we’re actually still open.”

“Ha ha ha,” she says, looking up at me. “Everyone’s just fine, thank you. Now let’s see…I think I’ll have the crab gumbo with grits…and the crawfish boudin with dirty rice.”

She plucks two Big Shots from the cooler: one cola, one watermelon.

“And these, too, please.”

“Two entrees, two drinks,” I say curiously. “Who’s your lucky dining companion?”

Marlene jabs her elbow into my ribs.

“You don’t interrogate customers, Caleb,” she reminds me. “You cook for them. Now chop, chop!”

With a smirk, I obey—and put a little extra love into the order, too. I ladle the gumbo from the very bottom of the pot so it’s chock-full of crab meat. And I keep a close eye on grilling the crawfish sausage, making sure its char marks are perfect.

“On the house,” I say to Marlene as I pass her Vanessa’s food.

“On your dime,” she corrects me.

I’d love to watch Vanessa’s expression when she takes her first bite, but taking care of a few more orders won’t give me that chance.

When our last customer has been served, I duck out of the truck and scan the crowd. I expect to see her and a friend polishing off the last of their lunch, but instead I see Vanessa sitting patiently on a bench. Alone, her food untouched, her two Big Shots unopened.

“Oh, no,” I say, walking up to her. “Did your lunch date stand you up?”

“Quite the opposite,” she answers cheerily. “So, I’ll admit I had a taste of both dishes. The crawfish is amazing. But that gumbo, Caleb? Heavenly.”

She picks up the two bottles of soda and holds them out to me.

“But I’ll be nice and let you pick your drink.”

Which is when I realize her lunch date is…me. I can’t suppress the smile that blooms across my face, even though part of me is a bit uneasy.

“What about Lucas?”

She says, “My husband is in Metairie all day, scouting locations for a new bistro he wants to open. I’m supposed to be running LBD. But I guess you could say I got a little cabin fever—kitchen fever—and wanted to stretch my legs. But if you’re busy again…”

I am. Terribly.

“Wait—what happened to your head?” she asks.

“Kitchen accident. Occupational hazard!” I say. I don’t want to lie—but I can’t tell her the truth.

But something comes to me that I’m ashamed to admit. Being with Vanessa for the next few minutes might help convince whatever FBI surveillance is out there that I’m being a good little chef after last night’s visit from Special Agent Morgan.

Plus I get to spend some time with this gorgeous and intriguing woman.

A win-win all around.

“Let’s walk and talk,” I say. “I know another spot not too far from here that’s pure New Orleans. Just as long as you’re not afraid of ghosts.”

She seems to perk up at the idea.

“Lead the way, Killer Chef,” she says. “I’m not scared of nothin’.”

Digging into our food and sipping our sodas, we stroll together down St. Claude Avenue, the main drag of this cozy neighborhood of the same name. It’s lined with an eclectic mix of shops, cafés, and detached houses painted vibrant colors like lime, blueberry, and tangerine. Our conversation is mostly small talk: how busy work’s been, how mild the weather’s been, how much fun Carnival’s been.

I wish I could share with her and anyone else what I’m working on, the burden of knowing that right now, scores of federal agents are scouring this city, looking for terrorists who want to strike during our high holy day, Mardi Gras.

But I can’t.

We hook a right on Desire Street. The irony of the name isn’t lost on me and I wonder if she picks up on it as well. Soon we arrive at two long brick walls on opposite